


MacGyver + Prompts

by Indigo2831



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Bruises, Drama, Explosions, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Panic Attacks, Phoenix Fam, Post-Mission Hurt/Comfort, Protective Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Protective Jack Dalton (MacGyver 2016), Serious Injuries, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:14:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26184019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indigo2831/pseuds/Indigo2831
Summary: A series of stand-alone short stories from Tumblr prompts.  Angst and Hurt/Comfort and Tooth-Rotting Fluff abound!
Kudos: 34





	1. MacGyver + Caryophyllales

**Author's Note:**

> I had too many ideas for my next MacGyver fic that I couldn't really focus on one enough to write it. So I asked for sentence prompts on Tumblr. I've written about a half-dozen. I'm not super-great at sticking to five sentences, so they're a bit longer. But still fun little bursts of hurt/comfort or found family feels. Let me know what you think!

Sentence Prompt: _“Stop squirmin’ or it’s gonna hurt more,” Jack chides._

MacGyver cinches his eyes shut and tries to hold himself still, but it’s difficult, thanks to the grimy mold skittering up the cinderblock walls and the stench of excrement clinging into the humid air of the neglected rest-stop bathroom.

Another quill drops into the rusty sink; its bloody end turning the uneven dribble of water a worrying pink. “How many more?” MacGyver asks, his voice cracking when Jack yanks another quill out of his lower back with a vicious tug.

“You don’t wanna know,” Jack says. MacGyver can see the empathetic grimace in the spiderwebbed mirror. “I can’t believe you dove in the range of a gunman and fell into a cactus.” 

“You were–” 

“I know what I was, hoss, but newsflash, I have a gun; I’m your Overwatch not the other way around. You stick to buildin’ doodads and thingymabobs, and let me worry about the goon squads,” Jack barks.

MacGyver sighs with frustration, “I’m usually the smartest guy in the room, but even I haven’t figured out a way to make you realize that you are just as valuable to Phoenix and the whole damn world as you think I am.” 

MacGyver knows that his years as a Delta sniper eroded a bit of Jack’s humanity and self-worth, and he absolutely abhors the way Jack is always willing to sacrifice himself at any given moment. 

“Keep tryin’, hoss; maybe one day it’ll stick,” he says, shattering the tense silence.

MacGyver cranes his head over his shoulder to offer his friend a shy smile. “Always.” 


	2. Macgyver + Old Wives' Tales

Sentence Prompt: _“I don’t know if this is normal, Jack, I’ve never been stung by jellyfish before!”_ MacGyver hisses through clenched teeth.

Crimson puckers across his skin, mapping the path of the jellyfish’s tentacles, giving a source for its white-hot anguish that tests even MacGyver’s epic pain tolerances.

At MacGyver’s tearing eyes, Jack reaches for the waistband of his swim trunks, oblivious to the children building a sandcastle a few feet away, “I’m gonna pee on it.”

MacGyver clutches his leg, holding it aloft above the innocent tide lazily frothing on the beach. “No, you’re not!”

Jack deflates. “That’s usually your answer for everything, brainiac. Pee yourself to get out of the hole; pee yourself to stay warm; the one time it applies…”

“That’s a myth—it’s probably just the warmth of the urine that helps. I need to wash out the microscopic stingers with vinegar.”

“So hospital?” Jack hedges.

MacGyver blows a raspberry, which isn’t the most mature response, but his leg _burns_. “Bathroom.” 

Jack is already pulling MacGyver’s arm around his neck to help him stand, chattering away to distract him from the pain. “Sometimes there’s truth to those old wives’ tales, hoss. One time on the ranch…”


	3. MacGyver + Nightmare

Sentence Prompt: _As Mac continued to pump Jack’s chest, he yelled, “C,mon, breathe damnit!”_ Mac’s voice trembles as the paramedic—Riley with her hair hastily whipped in a drugstore baseball cap and a plumber’s borrowed shirt—arrives and whisks Jack onto a gurney. 

MacGyver plays the panicked nephew, pleading for them to save his ill uncle’s life. It’s not remotely difficult cover, because Jack, thanks to an injection of a top-secret Phoenix compound, looks every bit the part: gray, clammy, pale-lipped and nearly lifeless. 

Shockingly, it all goes according to plan: bystanders clear the way for the unconscious, possibly dying man on the gurney, and the commotion distracts the bank staff from conducting the hourly security checks of their secure rooms and discovering that their security system was hacked and the contents of four specific safety deposit boxes were stolen.

MacGyver’s legs are rubbery, knees old hot, as he helps load Jack into the purloined ambulance. “We have to give him the antidote _nownownow_ ,” he pleads, frantically fumbling for his the vials they all have stashed on their person.

Riley is already injecting it into the hidden IV port hidden beneath Jack’s shirt. A few minutes later, Jack is sitting upright, drinking a cold bottle of water in between slurred jokes about _The Lazarus Man_. 

The pressure that’s been swelling within him like a nefarious balloon pops, and the covert agent starts to weep. Three sets of eyes are immediately on him and Matty is joking about his Oscar-worthy performance over comms, but MacGyver can’t stop crying, can barely breathe, seized by something akin to panic. He’s unaware of Jack moving until he is crushed against the chest of his favorite Texan. He fights hard not to burrow deeper, especially when Jack taps off their coms and rumbles with concern. “Too real,” he hiccups into sweat-damp cotton, “…m-my worst nightmare.”

“Love you too, kid,” Jack whispers and settles them against the side of the van to insulate him against the jarring journey. 


	4. MacGyver + Chivalry

Sentence Prompt: _“I’m sorry, but you’re on your own,”_ Jack says, holding his hands up in the surrender motion.

MacGyver drops his head in defeat, and becomes fascinated with the chilly blue gel in his icepack. He shoots Jack another pleading look, but the older man shakes his head before cocking in the direction of the back of the plane. 

With a sigh of impending doom, Mac trudges to the very tail of the Phoenix jet where Riley is holed up, nearly hugging her rig, the dangling foot of her crossed legs jittering with anger. Mac opens his mouth, and she holds up an index finger topped with a glittery talon to silence him. “Do I look like a damsel to you?” she asks, dark eyes fixed on the screen. “Do you not think I can do my job?”

“Of course not.” 

“So why did you lock me into a storage closet so you could get your ass kicked by three dudes. I could’ve helped you.” 

“I know.” 

“Jack doesn’t even treat me like…some helpless, little girl, and he knew me when I was one. You’re better than this, at least I thought you were,” she admits, voice softening from thunderous rage to brittle disappointment. Which is far worse.

MacGyver risks stepping into Riley’s wingspan and takes the seat across from her. “I haven’t been back for very long, and that Last Mission…a team member died.” 

“But Nikki faked the entire thing…” 

Mac sighs, and prods his aching face. “My head knows that—and I think you’re a great, capable agent. But my heart hasn’t really gotten the message yet. Like Cairo, that mission was the worst of the worst—I thought Nikki and Jack were dead—and I’m trying to work through that. I don’t mean to make you carry my baggage but sometimes I can’t stop myself.” 

Riley finally looks at him, and for the first time in six hours, her face isn’t lit up with rage. “I’m strong enough for that too, Angus, if you’ll let me.” 

MacGyver smiles as best he can with a swollen eye and battered jaw. 

“Now, make good use of that icepack. Your face is making me angry again.” 

MacGyver obeys, heart lifting just a little. 


	5. MacGyver + Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter is a bit more graphic than normal.

Prompt: _Mac or Jack (your choice) buried in rubble and unconscious while the other frantically searches for him. Hell you can do both and have someone else searching. Your call honestly, I just want one or both buried in rubble/debris/rocks._

An explosion is an unnatural force of nature—the wrath of a volcanic eruption coupled with the sheering destruction of a tornado. Even from thirty yards away, the power of the savage detonation lifts a retreating Jack off his feet, carries him over leagues of scrubby, arid ground, slamming him into a rocky patch of dirt. Something ruptures in his head, breaking open with a visceral tear. There’s a mysterious wetness on his face, but the rattle of shards in his chest has less to do with broken ribs or organs liquified by the calamitous force, and more to do with the fact that the last time Jack had seen MacGyver, he was deep in the bowels of the building.

Dust funnels over the earth in desolate columns as the section of the building where MacGyver collapses in a thunderous production of physics.

Jack is tearing over the treacherously unstable ground before he registers the movement before the ground stops shaking and his ears stop ringing. Vaporized concrete and ash waft down from the sky, a cutting and macabre snow that burns his eyes and clogs his throat. A constant, throbbing drone snatches his desperate pleas from his own ears as he begs all the gods and other deities of the universe that MacGyver didn’t lie about making it out of the building. The heat of the fires burning around the perimeter of the catered earth possesses a pressure that makes Jack stagger back, but he’s unrelenting, trying a different path, sifting through the rebar and smoldering concrete to find something. Anything.

His hands are gouged bloodily raw and scorched in places. The only light is provided by the glow of the last stubborn flames, and Jack is still searching, because despite the outcome, he will bring the kid home.

As he circles the catered building, a third of it a precariously balanced shell of exposed floors, sparking electricity and smoldering fires, Jack’s gaze is drawn to the wild grasses surrounding the field mere feet away. They were wind-whipped and rustling when Jack and MacGyver barreled in, using them for cover, to hash out a quick plan to gain entry and subdue the lone member of the terrorist agent that had escaped a CIA raid.

Mac had been at his side, mirroring his sniper crouch, laughing whole and healthy, when Jack had groused about missions never going as planned.

That image and the grasses, like the building that had been destroyed less than 15 minutes later. The fire had jumped to individual blades of grass, leeching across the fields, and in the darkness, it looks like a rolling ocean of orange and gold. Beautiful and disastrous. Embers spark into the night sky like fireworks. Jack mindlessly stumbles toward, drawn by the sight and the ghosts they once held.

He walks with a shellshocked shuffle, rudderless and on the precipice of cavernous grief. Something hard slams into his shin. It should hurt. He feels the pressure radiating from his leg upward, but the sensation of pain doesn’t begin to eclipse the anguish pooling in his heart from the static in his comms and Mac’s damning absence. He glances down and finds a plastic shower stall panel that’s dented and half covered in debris.

He traces the length of the smoky blue thermoplastic panel until he finds a booted foot poking out from beneath it, reverently pillowed in the deep grasses.

He stares at it for a long, fractured moment. Utterly stilled by the bizarre placement. Terrified to find that there isn’t a body attached to the appendage.

The foot moves in a spastic shudder, and Jack is warmed, not by the fires, but something akin to hope. Carefully, he lifts the plane upwards and finds MacGyver tucked below. Unconscious, chest heaving. Alive.

Tossing it aside, Jack kneels down and bellows for help. His friend is visibly burned, blisters and angry skin, crimson and peeling, littering his neck and shoulder. He sees the slickness of blood and the white of bone on his forearm, but the eyes that open are the brilliant blue he knows better than the brown of his own. And the smoky smile he receives is the only balm he needs.


End file.
